


Of Tacos and Tescos

by InsaneSociopath



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: As many fic tropes as I can summon from the void, Big Happy Space Family, Learning to be Human, M/M, No character bashing, Of course I'll fix Donna, Original Universe AU, The Metacrisis doctor doesn't stay with Rose, eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2020-01-13 05:16:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18462242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsaneSociopath/pseuds/InsaneSociopath
Summary: Really, how hard can living as a human in the 21st century be!?(What do you mean he has toput a coin in the slot to unhook the shopping trolley!?)(And he swears he will remembernotto put cutlery in the microwave next time! Honest Ianto!)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Usually I loiter around the Star Trek Fandom. If you followed me from there, hello! This is space too!  
> If you're a who fan, Hi I'm Ed ;)  
> I grew up during 10's era, and as I'm a chronic space gay and english bae, I never quite moved on from staring at his floppy hair and sideburns. So I thought I'd dabble.
> 
> I'm just going to let character dynamics develop naturally and see where we go from there :)

“No.”

One word, that’s all she says.

He shuffles self-consciously as his original’s face immediately contorts into a surprised scowl.

“What do you mean no?!” the Doctor asks, clearly taken aback. “He’s me! He’s everything you ever wanted but human enough to stay with your forever!”

“And he’s his own person too!” Rose says stubbornly as beach sand whips around their ankles in the onshore breeze. “You can’t just ditch him with me like his opinion means nothing! He’s a sentient being, not an object to be pawned off like some kind of consolation prize!”

“He committed genocide!” his original states again, increasingly agitated. 

Which is true, he thinks as his nails dig into his palms. He didn’t have a lot of choice in the matter, but he did.

“And you and I haven’t?” Rose demands. “Did the time war and the gamestation magically un-happen?”

“Rose-” he tries to interject, seeing his original’s anxiety begin to turn into anger.

“I did what I did because I had no other choice,” the Doctor spits over him, furious fire suddenly burning behind his eyes. “He _chose_ to murder every single one of those daleks!”

“And so did we!” Rose shouts back, tears in her eyes. “Them or the whole of creation. Shitty, unfair, impossible choices, but ones we still made! How was his decision any different?”

“Because he did it without a trace of remorse!” the Doctor roars, rage incandescent.

“You don’t know that,” Rose replies quietly, her voice cracking as she glances sideways towards where he’s stood. “You haven’t asked him.”

“I don’t need to, he’s _me!”_

“No. He’s you _and_ Donna. Your explanation of what a biological metacrisis is might have been rushed and garbled, but I got that much Doctor. Now look at him, look in those eyes and tell me he doesn’t deserve a say in his own fate. Look and tell me there isn’t just as much guilt in his head and his heart as there is in yours.”

“You can take a look if you like,” he tells his original nervously, tapping two fingers against his brow and swallowing hard. “I’ll leave all the doors open. I _am_ sorry.”

“We don’t have time for that,” the Doctor sighs a second later, resigned. “The walls between the dimensions are closing again. You humans though. Full of empathy and understanding, blindsides me every time! Just when I think you can't possibly go and do something even _more_ selfless…”

“You’re not so bad at it yourself Doctor,” Rose smirks, whipping her eyes on the back of her sleeve.

“I don’t want to leave you alone again though,” the Doctor eventually says softly. “He could stay with you forever. Grow old with you, be there for you.”

“You're not leaving me alone,” she laughs even as tears come again. “Earth is just one planet, but it's still a whole wide world begging to be explored. And I'm working on a PhD in mechanical engineering did you know? Mum's so proud of me. And Tony's counting on me to be the kickass older sister who scares away the monsters under his bed, and dad… the whole of creation, and I ended up in the version where I get my father back. I've got Torchwood to finish reforming, a planet to protect, and you, in my heart, where you'll always be no matter how great the time and distance between us grows.”

“Oh stars above, you turned out brilliantly Rose Tyler. _So_ bloody brilliantly,” The Doctor shudders as his arms close around her one last time. 

“He's welcome to stay, if that's what he wants. But it has to be _his_ choice,” Rose insists as she clings back. “Not yours, not mine. _His.”_

“Okay. Okay, I'll ask him,” the Doctor agrees tiredly. “I’ll ask and I’ll listen.”

* * *

“Are you sure about this,” the Doctor asks him one last time. “You still can’t stay with me, even if you stay in our universe. It wouldn’t end well for either of us.”

The TARDIS doors swing shut behind them, and the view of the Norwegian beach disappears.

“I’m sure,” he sighs wearily, rubbing at his tired eyes. “I just- she’s right. Rose, what she was implying. I _would_ spend my whole life wondering… wondering if she was actually seeing me for me or just the ghost of you. I can’t do that to her, make her deal with my own doubt. Not when she was already prepared for a clean break anyway.”

“Alright,” the Doctor sighs as he approaches the console and starts pushing buttons. “Where do you want dropping then? 54th century Ferras Boracalia? They’ve got really good cheese there. Or! The Zandanian agriculture colony! After the Hitasho revolution obviously.”

“I guess- Jack wouldn’t helping me get on my feet, would he? And 21st century Earth has always been fascinating.”

The Doctor smiles at him, kindness finally shining in his eyes.

“I don’t think Jack would mind at all.”

* * *

Donna comes barrelling back into the console room full of energy and talking a mile a minute a few seconds later, so he steps away from where he was about to start helping pilot, and shuffles away into the depths of the TARDIS instead.

He knows what’s going to happen to Donna eventually.

Selfishly, he hopes that he’ll have been left in Cardiff before it does.

In the meantime, he ambles down the corridors trailing one finger along the wall as he walks. He can’t sense his old girl like he used to, his Time Lord touch telepathy diminished by the human DNA swimming in his blood and cells. He can still sense her presence in the back of his mind, her warmth and welcome and love, but it’s more like an echo now. An endless hollow echo rather than the all-encompassing rush of warmth and music he’s used to. 

He wonders what else might have changed for him, beyond the immediately obvious.

Despite the weakened connection, the TARDIS must still sense his momentary burst of anxiety at that thought, because when he turns the next corner, the room he was searching for is right there waiting for him. He clumsily sends a wave of gratitude back, splaying his whole hand on the coral of the walls for a second in a feeble attempt to increase the strength of their bond, and then stumbles into the wide-open space of the wardrobe.

Taking a deep breath, he glances around at the hundreds of jackets and skirts and trousers and shoes and hats hanging from every wall and corner. Knowing that this might be the last time he ever comes in here, he takes a long moment to commit the sight to memory before finally huffing and beginning to hunt around for a suitcase or rucksack or something.

* * *

“Double? You in here?”

His original’s voice echoes up the spiral staircase just as he’s wondering whether or not he ought to take more than one pair of pyjamas with him. 

“Yeah, I’m up here wrestling with one of Queen Lizzie’s night gowns! I think it’s gained sentience!” he calls back, sticking his head over the banister. “I hope you don’t mind, but I figured I should take at least the basics with me. That’s what our companions have always done when they’ve left the TARDIS for the night or…”

He trails off and shrugs in a clear _you know what I mean_ gesture. 

“No, it’s fine,” the Doctor replies bemusedly, shoving his hands in the pockets of his brown pinstripe trousers. “Just don’t go nicking any of the good silk ties. Well, no more than a couple anyway. I suppose you can have two. Well, maybe one.”

“What about the t-shirt we got Freddie Mercury to sign when we snuck backstage at the Live Aid show?”

“If you so much as think about touching that, I will drag you to the science bay and genetically alter your taste buds so that you’ll never be able to enjoy another banana again.”

“You wouldn’t!” he mock gasps, turning and zipping up the beige duffle bag he’s claimed.

“No, but I might make everything you eat taste like pears for a week or so.”

The Doctor pauses then, his playful joviality dropping from his face. 

“I just wondered if…” He begins again slowly, watching as he hefts the duffel’s strap over one shoulder and moves towards the top of the stairs. “Well. If you wanted some of the… From my- I mean, _our_ bedroom. The… Keepsakes. Memories. I know we’re going to be most attached to the same ones but-”

The Doctor cuts off again, biting his lip.

“It would be nice,” he replies carefully as he starts down the spiral staircase, “To have a few things. Just a couple. If- if you don’t mind?”

“You know I don’t Double. Or I wouldn’t have offered. Come on then, let’s go have a rummage.”

* * *

“We’ll drop by whenever we can,” Donna tells him as they stand by the TARDIS doors, her arms tight around his shoulders. “Bring you gifts from our travels, make sure Captain Flirt is treating you right?”

“Oh Donna, you’re the best,” he laughs into his friend’s shoulder as he grips her back. “Brilliant you are, best mate anyone could ever dream of.”

“Is there any specific you want fetching?” she asks as she finally draws back away from him. 

“Wouldn’t mind the occasional pot of decent hair wax dropping by,” he grins, forcing the terrible knowledge of what’s going to happen to her back into the back of his mind. 

“God sake,” she huffs good naturedly. “You’re so vain!”

“Well I am part you now,” he teases. 

“Oi! You little skinny bugger! I’ll have you know the vanity is all him!” she protests, pointing at his original. “Now be off with you, before his prime Lordship says something else he doesn’t mean and upsets us both again.”

He meets the Doctor’s eyes as he reaches behind him and opens the door out onto the Plass, grateful when he finds nothing but warmth and kindness looking back at him.

“God look Double,” he hears as he steps out into the dull Welsh autumn sunlight. “And don’t do anything I wouldn’t!”

“That leaves a lot of wiggle room,” Donna snorts as she steps back herself and the TARDIS door begins to swing shut between them. “Now Doctor have you ever heard of a planet called Fellspoon! “Fellspoon!” Lovely-”

The rest of her words are cut off by the metallic click of the latch engaging between them. 

Seconds later, and the distinctive mechanical whirring of the TARDIS engines starts, and he’s left alone in 21st century Wales.

* * *

“Hello?” he calls curiously as he steps slowly inside the empty tourist office. 

The door clicks shut behind him, and he self-consciously grips the strap across his chest, poking at a pile of glossy paper leaflets with his other hand.

“The Open Boat bay tours,” he reads aloud from the top of stack. “Fun for all the family from just two quid per person. Aw look at that! The boat is called the Daffodil! I like daffodils! They’re a fantastic flower, all yellow!”

Turning, he shuffles up to the large map of Cardiff pinned to the wall. Over the Plass, a small red label has been stuck, proudly declaring “You are here!”. The rest of the map is a mixture of green dotted lines and blue numbered circles, highlighting recommended walking routes and tourist attractions respectively.

“Cardiff Castle,” he muses aloud again, tapping the relevant circle. “Met a Phasmaroid there once in the 17th century. Course everyone thought she was a ghost and kept trying to exorcise her, which she thought was hilarious. Let her hitch a lift with me back to Phasma IV once she got bored of teasing them all.”

Nothing greets his anecdote except the distant screech of seagulls from outside.

Sighing and adjusting his bag strap again, he starts looking round more seriously, eventually noticing the slow blinking light of a security camera up in the far corner. Rounding the counter that the till is sat atop of, he peers up into the lens and grins as brightly as he can manage, mouthing hello and then waving.

Thirty seconds later, and nothing has happened again.

He’s sure this is the right place; after dropping Jack off after the year that never was, this is the building he’d strolled into. And he’s sure the Captain had mentioned a tourist office once when talking about his Hub that year. Not that he’d said a great lot about Torchwood, even when they had been close enough for Jack to talk to him (talk at him, more accurately, seeing as he hadn’t said a lot himself during those long months).

And that’s a thought! Martha is here in this era too! 

And Mickey! Who has grown and matured quite considerably since the first time they met on the Powell estate.

“Alright, this is ridiculous,” he says aloud, looking at the camera again. “I’m going to tuck my bag under this counter and then I’m going explore-”

He cuts off as a door to his left suddenly slides open, revealing a tall, dark young man in a crisp burgundy shirt and black waistcoat and tie.

“Doctor,” the man greets neutrally, his arms crossing over his chest as he leans sideways against the doorframe. 

“Ah, yes and no,” he grins back. “But no matter, I’ll explain later. You must be Ianto! Jack likes you, talks about you a lot! And you sound so Welsh! I love it!”

“Jack’s not back yet,” Ianto says coolly. “He called this morning and said you left him in London with Martha.”

“Oh, actually that wasn’t very considerate of me now I think about it, was it,” he smiles sheepishly. “Or well, of other me. I didn’t have a lot of say on who got dropped off where.”

Ianto sighs and pinches his brow.

“So there are two of you now? Just what we bloody need. Well you best come on down then, and I’ll get some coffee going while I call Jack again.”

“Oh! I’d rather have tea if that’s alright with you? Nothing quite as good for the synapses as a mug of hot English breakfast!”

* * *

“Excuse the mess,” Ianto says drolly as the alarm whirs and the large cog door wheels open. “Gwen and I have done a little bit of clear up, but there’s still an Eau de dead-dalek hanging about.”

“Oh now this is the best kind of secret evil lair!” he gasps excitedly when he finally lays eyes upon the main room of the hood. “Bit medieval by my usual standards, but very impressive for a bunch of 21st century humans!”

“Bathrooms with running water down the corridor to the left,” Ianto replies dryly. “Pitchforks and torches store room is to the right, next to the plate armour and broadsword display.”

“You and I are going to get on brilliantly Ianto Jones,” he grins with a wink.

Stranded on Earth forever more with only one heart and no TARDIS is not the fate he thought awaited him, but damn if he won’t at least _try_ and make the best of it.


	2. Chapter 2

“Jack’s just gotten into Cardiff Central, so he’ll be back here in half an hour,” Ianto tells him suddenly, his head popping out around the glass door to what he assumes is an office. “He said he’s going to walk rather than try and collar a taxi, but he doesn’t hang about. Rather wide stride, our Jack has.”

“He always was good at running,” he agrees absently, still cradling his empty mug.

He’s sat on the single worn sofa that’s pushed up against one tiled wall of the hub. His still zipped up bag is lying by his feet, and he’s been considering asking Gwen if he can help with the sweeping up she’s doing for the fourth time. Maybe she’ll finally say he can this time? Anything would be better than sitting and continuing to twiddle his thumbs to be honest.

“Do you want another cuppa Doctor?” Ianto interrupts his thoughts, hopping gracefully down the stairs towards him.

“Oh. Um, I’m not the Doc- You know what, forget that. Yes please. To the tea I mean.”

“Bring your mug then; might as well show you the facilities while we’re at it.”

Pushing himself to his feet, he glances nervously at his duffel for a second, before calling himself an idiot in three different languages and rushing to catch up to the retreating Welshman. His entire collection of worldly possessions might be in that duffel, but nothing will happen to it in the next 10 minutes or so just because he isn't staring at it.

Well. It’s very statistically unlikely that anything will happen to it, even factoring in his usual rotten luck.

“So what should we be calling you then, if you’re not going by the Doctor anymore,” Ianto asks him once they’ve walked into a small kitchenette. There’s an elaborate coffee maker, a small kettle, a sink, a dishwasher with its door open and bottom rack pulled out, but no cooking facilities beyond a microwave with a long dent bashed into its top. Ianto beelines immediately for the coffee machine with his own mug and doesn’t turn to fill the kettle until the sound of grinding beans has begun.

“I don’t actually know,” he frowns back. “I mean, I’m still the Doctor sort of. I have all his memories and likes and dislikes and knowledge, but I’m also _not_ him you know? And we look the same, have the same mannerisms and speech patterns for the most part, but my physiology is different. One heart, no respiratory bypass… Not sure, but I think I haven’t got a toxicological-liver anymore either. Best avoid getting poisoned until I’ve sussed that one out. Can’t do a detox without it.”

“I’ll be sure to cut back on the amount of cyanide I store next to the tea bags then,” Ianto deadpans as he reaches for what he assumes is a sugar pot.

“Oh blimey, I really am going to have to pick an actual human name, aren’t I?” he suddenly blurts. “Never had one of those before.”

“Well I’ve got to put something on the passport and HMRC paperwork that I totally am not going to illegally forge for you,” Ianto smirks. “We would never condone such activities here at Torchwood.”

“I suppose I can’t apply for all that the normal way, can I?” he states faintly, gripping the door frame he’s still stood in. “Not that I know what the normal way is to be honest. Always had physic paper before.”

“We’ve got a little bit of that actually,” Ianto says calmly as he pours hot water over a PG tips teabag. “Down in the archives. It’s no bigger than my thumb nail and only shows you one letter at a time and often glitches out, but I’ll fish it out for you if you want to have a look.”

“Got a lot of stuff down there do you?” he asks quietly as he accepts his mug back, glancing at the cupboards and wondering if one of them is some kind of cooling or stasis box. He'll happily drink his tea without milk again, but he'd rather have some if it's going. 

Ianto shrugs as he clasps his own mug with both hands and turns and leans back against the worktop.

“A fair bit. We gather up whatever falls out of the rift as best we can so that it doesn’t end up on the streets where it could hurt someone. Tosh will then- I mean… Tosh used to poke at things carefully once we got whatever it was back here, and if the use wasn’t immediately obvious, it would get passed to me to label and archive. We try not to experiment with things too much in case something explodes in our faces or worse.”

“Sounds a lot more sensible than I was expecting to be honest,” he admits quietly after taking a long sip.

“Sensible sir?” Ianto grins with a raised eyebrow. “Only been here half an hour and you’ve already gotten entirely the wrong impression. No matter, Myfanwy will soon correct that.”

“Who?”

* * *

He’s lead back into the main area of the hub, but this time he’s ushered towards the small metal staircase that winds up from the centre of the room. After leaving his still half full mug next to Ianto’s on the cluttered coffee table in front of the lumpy sofa, he follows the other man up onto a narrow walkway that runs around the edge of the cavernous room. Upon reaching the glass doored room that Ianto emerged from earlier (obviously an office now he can see in), they climb another spiral staircase further up towards the metal rafters.

And at the top of that, there’s a platform holding a large rusty crate partially filled with shredded rags and long cracked bones.

And a Pterodactyl nestled amongst it all sleeping.

“Undoctor, meet my girl Myfanwy,” Ianto smiles slightly, gesturing with obvious pride.

“Oh, she’s beautiful,” he croons, crouching down to her level.

“Careful you don't get too close, or she'll have your hand,” Ianto warns as he automatically starts to reach out to her. “She won't attack any of us down in the hub, but this is her space and territory up here.”

He slowly curls his fingers back in and pulls them back towards himself. Ianto has stepped up next to him, his knees almost brushing his shoulder as he rocks back on his heels.

“You can feed her if you like,” Ianto shrugs with a small smile. “The big fridge on the other side of the crate is full of red meat, and she’s about due her dinner.”

He grins up at Ianto.

“I'd love to.”

* * *

“Ianto!” 

The call comes a mere second after the entrance alarm has sounded and the door rolled open.

“Up here sir,” Ianto calls back, leaning on the railing and peering down towards the main floor.

“The Doctor up there with you?”

“I'm not the Doctor,” he shouts back himself, “but yes I am.”

“Good! Team meeting in ten minutes, my office.”

* * *

Jack's office is a mixture of dark wood and exposed brickwork and grey stone blocks, half bathed in deep blue light, and half warmed by a vibrant red lamp stood atop a tall metal filing cabinet. The desk itself is probably considered an antique in this era, and is placed diagonally out from the near wall, allowing Jack a clear view through the glass next to him out over the main hub.

“Perch yourselves wherever” Jack waves with an easy smile as they step in through the doors to the left of the desk’ front. “Just mind you don't knock that mess of wires, or you'll get a nasty shock.”

Ianto and Gwen position themselves with casual familiarity, but he nervously hovers in the doorway, eventually forcing himself to lean on the silver coloured frame and adopt a relaxed looking pose.

“Now then,” Jack begins with another disarming grin. “I'm sure you've probably done introductions already in my absence, but Gwen, Ianto, this is the Doctor. Or rather, his near identical duplicate.”

Gwen gives him a cheery smile and wave, despite the fact they've already shaken hands twice today, and she's politely told him not to fuss about the mess double as many times again.

“And Doctor, this is-” Jack starts to continue.

“Um not the Doctor,” he interrupts anxiously. “Not using that name, doesn't feel like mine.”

“Sure,” Jack smiles reassuringly, clearly noticing his nerves. “What are you using then?”

“We haven’t decided between the Undoctor or the Not-doctor yet,” Ianto quips for him when his mouth opens and closes several times without any sounds or syllables coming out.

“John Smith?” Jack suggests tentatively.

“No, that's his too,” he grimaces. “I think- I think I'd like to be a Noble. Maybe. Is that okay?”

“You are part Donna,” Jack agrees easily. “And she _is_ the most important person in the universe. Seems right to acknowledge her.”

He shrugs, feeling oddly unsure of himself again. Pesky humanity, sapping away his confidence. 

(Okay so that's a lie; his new DNA has nothing to do with his emotional state, but it's a reassuring lie so he’s sticking to it.)

“Well that gives me something to shout across the hub when I want your attention Agent Noble.”

“You're staying here permanently then?” Gwen asks. She's sat on the far end of Jack's desk, ankles crossed and one hand resting on the base of the low lamp.

He shrugs again, rolling the words _Agent Noble_ around his mind, trying out their flavour.

“Better here than anywhere else in the universe, right?” He mumbles eventually. “At least here I know I won't be completely alone.”

“Welcome to team Torchwood then,” Gwen grins. “Rule one. Shit happens, but we get though it best we can.”

“There are rules? Sorry, dumb question. Secret organisation, of course there are rules.”

“Rule two, touch Ianto's coffee maker and you'll spend the rest of the week suffering,” Jack laughs. 

“Also bear in mind that two comes before three and I shot the last person to break rule three,” Ianto adds mildly. “Don't open the rift.”

“Why would anyone do that!?” He gasps, knowing a great deal more about time rifts than almost anyone else in existence. Current point in time _and_ otherwise. 

“Long story for another time,” Jack frowns. “But that's a serious rule, one that will be in your Torchwood briefing packet. Don't open the rift under any circumstances.”

“No touchy the rift machiney,” he nods agreeably. “Though I personally think you’re mad having a device capable of doing so in the first place.”

“Part and parcel of monitoring rift activity Noble,” Jack half smiles, half grimaces. “And on that note, rift monitoring and the prediction algorithms are going to be your duty unless you have any objections. Ianto and Gwen will show you to Tosh’s old desk and get you set up on our computing network. Bit primitive compared to what you’ll be used to, but I’m sure you’ll cope.”

* * *

“We still haven’t cleared them off,” Gwen says quietly once the three of them are stood in front of the desks on the main floor. “It’s been almost a month now, and Ianto and I still haven’t found the willpower to pack their things up.”

“I can set a desk up somewhere else for now,” he suggests meekly. “I know what it’s like to lose someone close to you. I’ve never managed to pack up a single one of the bedrooms on the TARDIS; just let the old girl seal them up.”

“No, no they wouldn’t want that,” Gwen shakes her head. “Hanging about like ghosts, stabbing us with grief every time we walk past.”

“I’ll go get some boxes from the archives,” Ianto swallows. “Gwen if you would add a new profile to the Torchwood Network in the meantime, it’d much appreciated.”

* * *

Once both of the desks have been carefully cleared of all personal effects and Gwen has given him temporary logon details, he slowly lowers himself into the wheeled office chair in front of the far workstation and breathes out long and slow.

He’s Earthbound. 

Permanently.

He has a _job._ With payslips and tax deductions.

(Do torchwood employees pay tax? If they do how does that work? Does he get to choose what any hypothetical taxes are spent on? How-)

 

“Do we get name plaques?” he asks Ianto as the Welshman brings him a fresh mug of tea, this time with milk. 

“I think Jack is still pretending we’re a secret organisation,” Ianto replies with a raised eyebrow. “Can’t have any intruders finding out our names despite the fact that everyone in Cardiff knows where we’re based and that our SUV has our name and logo emblazoned on the side.”

“Blimey,” he says for what feels like the dozenth time today, “I’m going to have to learn to drive.”

“I’ll find us an empty car park and show you the basics someday,” Ianto offers. “Just don’t mention it to Jack, or he’ll insist on being the one to teach you. He’s a bit of a maniac behind the wheel if I’m forced to be honest.”

“I’ll bare that in mind.”

“Onto the next question then sir-”

“Oh god, don’t call me sir. I’m not a sir.”

“Queen Victoria knighted you, that makes you a sir,” Ianto smirks.

“She banished me straight afterwards,” he retorts. “And oh, actually. That’s not going to cause problems is it? Even though it was technically _him_ that got exiled and not me.”

“I can assure you that Dr. TBA Noble has never been banished from the United Kingdom.”

“TBA?”

“To be announced. We could call you T for short.”

“Isn’t TBA already short?”

“Well,” Ianto grins lopsidedly, “usually Jack is the one to make jokes about size mattering, but I’ll do it for him seeing as it’s your first day and he’s busy wrangling UNIT.”

“You-” _humans_ he finishes in his mind, choking the actual word off. For all intents and purposes, he _is_ a human now. “Never mind, what was your original question?”

“Hmmm? Oh, pizza. I’m ordering in. Any allergies or topping preferences I should be aware of?”

“Can’t stand pears still, I think. No idea other than that.”

“Right. New body, new taste buds. I’ll get a few different things and you can try things out.”

* * *

“They’re _squidgy,”_ he repeats, swilling water around his mouth in disgust. 

Jack’s laughter only increases in volume.

“Why would anyone think it’s a good idea to eat a fungus anyway!?” he protests as Gwen joins in with her own giggles.

“Oh bloody hell, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a face like that,” Gwen snickers. “And over a tiny strip of mushroom an’ all!”

 _“Agaricus bisporusm_ one, Noble zero,” Ianto deadpans before he bites into his own slice of meat feast.


	3. Chapter 3

His time sense is still there, but it’s… vague.

He knows that it’s about ten in the evening, past that by maybe five or ten minutes. But beyond that? He can’t feel microsecs or seconds any more, and even minutes are nebulous and approximate. 

Oddly enough, it doesn’t really bother him. 

Other things, like the singular heartbeat feel almost like a phantom limb. His memory knows something should be there and his nerves automatically want to respond accordingly, but there’s no organ or sense or sensation there for them to act on or react to.

But the lack of precision to his temporal awareness is actually kind of pleasant? It’s almost as if an edge he didn’t realise was sharp and jagged has gone soft and smooth. He doesn’t have to shove his awareness of the flow of time to the back of his mind anymore, doesn’t have to actively concentrate to not let the sensation drown out all his other thoughts when he’s using it. 

So.

It’s approximately ten past ten in the evening, on a warm summer’s evening in July in 2008. 

He’s astonishingly tired. 

“Jack this is ridiculous,” he moans to his old friend. “I can barely keep my eyes open and all my limbs feel like Korvonite weights. How am I supposed to cope with this!?”

“By sleeping,” Jack chuckles back, arms crossed as he leans back against the front of his desk. “Now you know how we all felt when you used to run from one crazy adventure to the next without pause.”

“I’m so very sorry,” he mumbles through another yawn. “I never realised it was _this_ bad.”

“Come on, my rooms down here. You can have my bed for the night.”

“What about you?” he asks with a frown. “You need sleep too.”

“I’m not in a brand-new body with a mind that’s had to go through quite a few big adjustments in the last few hours,” Jack tells him gently. “I also napped on the train on my way back from London this morning. So come on, let’s get you down into my room and find you something comfortable to wear.”

“I brought pyjamas,” he blurts, sleepiness slackening his already loose brain to mouth filter. “They’re in my duffle, the one under the- under my desk.”

“I didn’t even know that you owned any,” Jack grins as he steps up to him and guides him across the small room, stopping them beside a trapdoor. Bending down, he grasps the metal ring with his other hand, and swings the wood upwards with practiced ease. “After you Noble,” he gestures grandly with an excessive bow, “I’ll go grab your bag while you get your trainers and tie off. Light switch is at eye level on your left once you’re at the bottom.”

Slowly and as carefully as he can manage, he clambers down the ladder and then pats about at the wall until he finds the aforementioned switch. The -frankly archaic- halogen bulb flickers twice before steadying into a low yellow glow, and the room lights up around him.

The back wall to his left is more of the same stone and exposed brick found on all the “external” walls of the hub, but the others are white, their brightness masked by the artificial lighting. There are no pictures hung up, but there is a thin robe dangling in a loop across one wall, various items hung from it on little metal hooks, including a porcelain dolphin, a carved wooden castle, and a metal contraption with red coated wires twisted around it and a dim green light at its centre.

Beyond this, there’s a small, narrow wardrobe in the far corner, a three-foot-high chest of drawers sat next to it. Both are made of pale brown wood and have long silver handles on their fronts. A stack of plain white t-shirts is sat atop the drawer unit, folded roughly and unironed, and next those is a pair of braces, one back hook clipped to the other. 

In the opposite corner, there’s a small double bed covered neatly with navy blue sheets. The pillows are cased in a lighter blue material, and much to his surprise, he can see a soft looking toy animal poking out from under the duvet. On the adjacent bedside cabinet, there’s a small lamp, a half full glass of water, and a dog-eared book with a small velvet bag laid on top of it obscuring the title.

Looking over his shoulder briefly, he sees a clouded glass and metal door of the same style the rest of the underground base is filled with, and he surmises that it’s probably a washroom or bathing suite. Next to this though, is a small table with two simple chairs pushed in under it. 

Sighing deeply, he shuffles the couple of steps over to this and pulls one chair out. Sinking into with a groan, he squints at the laces on his trainers, and half-heartedly wonders if it wouldn’t just be easier to sleep in his navy pinstriped suit; taking his shoes off and getting undressed seems like entirely too much effort right now.

“Coming down Noble!” Jack suddenly calls from the top of the ladder. “I hope you’re not decent!”

“Oi!” he squawks back instinctively, wincing as thoughts of Donna come flashing back to the forefront. “Watch it Captain!”

“I _will_ watch you given half a chance,” Jack snorts happily as he slides fluidly down the ladder, one foot on either side of the rails and his duffel slung diagonally over one shoulder.

Instead of trying to reply again, he just sighs tiredly, hoping that Jack will realise he just doesn’t have the energy to banter right now. He must do, because when he steps in front of him a second later, his expression is soft and his lips pressed together in an easy smile.

“S’fine, I got it,” he mumbles when Jack smoothly drops to one knees and deftly starts undoing his right laces. 

“I know, but I like helping,” Jack replies simply with a half shrug, switching to his other trainer. 

Sighing again, he resigns himself to it and reaches up to tug at his tie knot instead. The deep red Paisley silk slides from around his neck easily, and he stares at it forlornly once it’s draped over his hand. 

“Want a hand with your jacket?” Jack asks as he pulls his second trainer off, spotted cotton sock half coming with it. 

“Jack honestly I’m fine,” he grumbles as he starts pulling his arms out of the sleeves. “Really, I’m nine hundred and something, not fifty. I’m not a child.”

“Didn’t say you were, just asked if you wanted some help.”

“Sorry,” he mumbles with a grimace a second later. “I guess I get grumpy when I’m tired now. Probably Donna’s influence.”

“Mmm maybe we should see if Martha has got the time to come and do a proper medical workup for you. For all we know, you have new allergies and things now,” Jack muses as he stands back up and nudges the duffel bag closer with the toe of his boot. “Isn’t Donna allergic to shellfish?”

“She was, until I- until _he_ fixed it,” he sighs back as he leans down and undoes the zip of his bag. “Tropomyosin protein antibody rejection is exceptionally easy to fix in most human populated places after the 33rd century. Guess that doesn’t mean I haven’t inherited the unedited dodgy gene though I suppose.”

He grimaces again as his thoughts once again wonder towards the other unpleasant effects of a Biological Metacrisis. And he didn’t get the worse half of the deal by a long way. 

“Wow, they’re decidedly ordinary,” Jack chuckles at him as he finally manages to pull his nightwear out his bag. “I was expecting either blue and white striped flannel, or an elaborate robe or something.”

“I’m glad you’re thrilled,” he replies dryly as he unfolds the plain grey tee and the black cotton trousers with a single blue line running up the length of each leg. With another jaw-cracking yawn, he then starts to fumble at his shirt buttons, glaring at Jack when his lips start twitching towards another chuckle.

* * *

Somewhere close by, music is playing.

“Hnngg?” he garbles into the material his face is pressed into, wondering where he is and why he feels weird. 

Whatever is being obnoxiously loud is also vibrating, buzzing rhythmically against a hard surface.

He opens his eyes and sees a shaking rectangle of light in the darkness, lying flat just below his eye level. 

“Phone?” he mumbles out loud as he stares at it, confused. It is a phone, isn’t it? Like the one Martha had demanded he keep?

The unpalatably cheerful jingle grows louder.

He reaches out towards it, squinting as the screen brightens and blinds him at his touch. 

_08:00 morning work alarm_   
_Slide to cancel_

Work? What-?

Oh.

Oh, he’s in Cardiff. In 2008. 

With one heart, no TARDIS, and a job with taxes he has to pay. 

...Probably pay.

Groaning, he turns his face back into Jack’s pillow, and tries to breathe his way through the rising tide of panic.

* * *

Eventually, he stumbles up the ladder into Jack’s office still in his (apparently boring) pyjamas. The Captain is slumped backwards in his desk chair, head tilted back, his eyes closed, and his breathing rhythmic. 

“Jack,” he yawns, shuffling forward to poke his friend in the ribs. The panic is gone for the moment, but in its place a strange sort of energetic restlessness has stirred. “Jack, I need tea.”

Jack’s eyes flicker open as his whole-body tenses, obviously hyper alert in an instance. 

“It’s a good job we’re in the hub or I’d be halfway to reflexively stabbing you,” Jack rasps eventually, his shoulders slowly slackening. “I’d advise you not to creep up on me when I’m napping again.”

“Sorry,” he grins back shamelessly. “But I need tea.”

Jack looks at him strangely.

“Alright then Noble,” he sighs eventually, pushing himself to his feet as shoving a hand through his bedraggled hair. “Come on, kitchen’s this way.”

“I haven’t got anything on my feet,” he grins harder, bouncing on his toes. “I can’t go out there!”

“I’ve seen you walk all over the place barefoot,” Jack frowns as he pauses by the door.

“My soles are all sensitive now,” he whines deliberately childishly. “The concrete is cold, and I can feel every speck of grit and dust!”

Jack stares at him silently some more. 

“Go back downstairs,” he grumbles eventually. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

* * *

One heart.

No respiratory bypass.

Slightly fuzzy eyesight.

Sensitive feet.

Constant hunger.

Increased need to sleep.

Dulled time sense and telepathic awareness.

...Altered sense of smell?

Poking about in Jack’s tiny washroom, he flips open another one of the bottles stashed in the water cubicle and sniffs at it. True to the label on the front, the liquid does indeed smell strongly of limes, but now he can’t tell more than that. Before, he’d have been able to tell what variety of limes had been used, what other chemicals they’d been mixed with, how long they’d been stored for… Now it just smells of limes. Just- limes.

Resisting the urge to squirt some onto his fingers to lick off, he recaps the bottle and places it back at the bottom of the basin.

“Here you go your lordship,” Jack says from behind him, causing him to twist around in surprise.

“Decreased awareness of other people’s proximity,” he rattles off as he gratefully clasps the steaming mug he’s being handed. 

“Huh?”

“I’m making a list,” he tells Jack as he leans back against the wall to his left. “Things that are different for me now. I didn’t know you were standing there until you spoke, which is odd. I’m also constantly hungry and tired, my eyesight is rather poor, my left _trapezius_ shoulder muscle is aching, my chest feels weird, and my breathing is restricted.”

“You best be putting some good things on that list as well,” Jack grimaces as he takes a sip of his coffee.

“Well of course!” he grins manically. “I don’t have to worry about accidentally getting surface thoughts every time I shake someone’s hand anymore, things smell much simpler now which makes them easier to enjoy, I have an excuse to put actual lenses in my brainy specs instead of just plain glass, and I’m not constantly aware of the crushing weight of responsibility for the entire universe pressing down on my shoulders!”

“That’s… a lot to unpack,” Jack says slowly with obvious concern. “How about we start with a shower and then breakfast and go from there?”

“Aha! Shower! That’s what it’s called here! I couldn’t remember the word! It feels weird having to speak actual English again instead of just letting the TARDIS do the translating for me.”

“Clean towels,” Jack says instead of commenting, pointing at the small cupboard built under the sink. “Don’t try and eat my shower gel and remember the hot water will run out after fifteen minutes because the tank for this room is tiny. I’m going back upstairs so you can get redressed without worrying about your modesty.”

“Thanks for the tea Jack!” he yells happily as he starts tugging his t-shirt over his head.

* * *

“Ianto, my main manto!” he cheers as he strides out of Jack’s office with still damp hair. The Welshman is standing in the middle of the hub with a clipboard, his shirt navy blue today.

“Good morning Noble. Tea?”

“Ooo yes please,” he grins as he bounds down the stairs, hands shoved in his trouser pockets. “Also, I need you to teach me how to shave. Apparently my body grows stubble now. It _itches.”_

For a second, Ianto looks at him like he’s spontaneously grown a second head. Then he shrugs and glances at his clipboard. Which apparently has a screen on it, now he’s close enough to see it properly.

“Do you want to do that before or after I take you to the opticians? Bearing in mind we also have to brave some clothes shops, Tesco’s, and the wrath of my landlady.”

He blinks.

“What’s a Tesco’s?”

* * *

_Famous last words_ he thinks in horror as he stares into the clinically bright entrance of the huge ...supermarket?

“Come on, let’s grab a trolley,” Ianto tells him, squaring his shoulders like he’s about to charge into a pitched battle.

“Just another adventure, right?” he tells himself weakly as he scrambles after his fellow torchwood agent.


End file.
